


Holy Injuries, Batman!

by LadyDrace



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Depression, First Kiss, Getting Together, Heavy Angst, Injury, Injury Recovery, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, Insecurity, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, POV Stiles, Permanent Injury, Spark Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9065503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/pseuds/LadyDrace
Summary: Stiles gets hurt. Badly. Getting better turns out to be more of a process than anyone expected, and there are a few surprises along the way.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rieraclaelin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rieraclaelin/gifts).



> This is written for [rieraclaelin](http://rieraclaelin.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Unbetaed but thoroughly edited.

It's a week after high school graduation when disaster strikes. It's some kind of fire spirit. A very angry one. And in spite of Stiles' magic and the pack's best effort, putting the thing down comes at a high cost. Stiles listens woozily to the doctor listing all of his injuries. Third degree burns on roughly eight percent of his body, including his face, shoulder and left bicep. Three fractured ribs. Right kneecap shattered. Various sprains and bruises. A few cuts.

 

Thanks to the morphine, Stiles doesn't feel much of it. Actually what's most annoying is his left eye. It's taped shut after surgery, and the doctor refuses to give any sort of prediction on whether he'll ever regain full vision on it. He tries not to think about it.

 

It helps that the pack visits in an almost endless stream. It seems like every hour he's awake there's someone there. Usually Derek is among them, glowering in a corner, and the first thing Stiles does is roll his functioning eye at him, because he's probably already blaming himself for this too, like the self-hating asshole he is.

 

Recovery is slow and painful. There's physical therapy, skin grafts, surgeries, and if Stiles never sees another hospital bed in his life it'll be too soon. The pack still pops by several times a week in small clusters, but they have lives too, and Stiles doesn't blame them for coming by less and less. Derek still comes by at least every other day, though, if nothing else just to sit in the visitor's chair and brood, and Stiles appreciates his sour company a lot more than he ever thought he could.

 

It's the middle of August and blisteringly hot when Stiles is finally allowed to return home. But eating curly fries and playing computer games at home on his childhood couch beats eating hospital food and watching bad daytime TV by several hundred miles, so Stiles tries his best to smile and let everyone know how happy he is being home.

 

One major difference, though, is the sudden quiet. Thanks to his knee he can't really go outside much without help, and since the insurance company couldn't get an adequate explanation for how he was injured, it was put down to mostly recklessness, which means his dad has to work a lot more to pay for all his treatments. It makes him feel like shit, and he spends most of his copious alone-time feeling sick to his stomach about what it must do to his dad to almost lose his only child, and then have to work himself half to death to pay for the privilege of him being alive.

 

Derek still drops by every other day like clockwork, and Stiles is grateful and annoyed in turn. Grateful because sour company is better than no company, and annoyed because the overbearing alpha routine was annoying as hell even before Stiles' life was reduced to pain and hobbling, and as an invalid it's officially veered into intolerable.

 

“If you really wanna help, then you could cough up some of that family dough and pay my fucking medical bills, so I can see my dad more than once a week!” Stiles rants one day as Derek is trying to convince him to eat something with actual vitamins in it. Stiles frankly doesn't give a shit, it's not like there's any point to it. He should be allowed to at least eat greasy crap when every waking moment is either painful, itchy, lonely or all three.

 

“I tried,” Derek says shortly, spooning veggie lasagna onto Stiles' plate in the most angry way possible. “Your dad refused.”

 

Stiles stares at him, the view still slightly fuzzed thanks to his left eye, and keeps staring until Derek looks up.

 

“What?”

 

“Derek. You're basically Batman. There's literally _nothing_ stopping you from just doing it.”

 

“Your dad _refused_. I didn't wanna... disrespect him, or whatever,” Derek says, and if half of Stiles' body hadn't still been a mess, he would have gotten up to _punch_ him. He's so angry it feels like his skin is burning all over again. A small part of him is aware that it isn't really Derek he's angry at as much as the situation in general, but Derek is a convenient target and has picked the absolute _worst_ time to grow a sense of respect for his fellow man.

 

“Well, here's the thing, Derek. I. Don't. _Care_. I'm hurt and bored and itchy, and I just want my fucking dad to not die of a fucking heart attack before I can even fucking _walk again!_ ” Derek jerks up like Stiles slapped him, and it's endlessly satisfying. “So first thing tomorrow morning you're calling whoever you have to, and you're gonna throw your money around until it's done, and if my dad gets pissed you tell him I forced you to do it. Got it?”

 

Derek just nods, and leaves without eating any of the lasagna. Stiles does feel a little bit bad about yelling, and eats his portion, making sure to save the rest for his dad.

 

Stiles doesn't feel even remotely bad about milking his injury for a good cause, and shamelessly enjoys the new pattern of having both morning coffee and dinner with his dad almost every day of the week now. Derek still drops by every other day, though there's definitely tension between him and Stiles' dad for several weeks.

 

The rest of the pack do visit, but it's spotty, especially because most of them are getting ready to start college. Stiles looked through his college acceptance letters one time, but put them all aside when his bad eye watered enough to start dripping on the pages. He's not going this year. Healing is kind of a priority.

 

It's slow going, though, and even when he finally gets well enough to retire his crutches, he still has to use a cane, and there's no telling if he'll ever be really free of it. His eye is also still itchy and blurry, and he tends to avoid looking in the mirror. He's lucky, by any measure. He's alive, he's mostly able-bodied, he has his dad and his friends. Or at least Derek's sour face on a regular basis. He should be more content. But mostly he's just... angry. Bitter.

 

The burns on his face healed okay, with only a little scarring around his eye. Even his hair grew back perfectly fine. There's some significant gnarling of the skin down his neck, though, and from collarbone to elbow, his left shoulder and arm look like the lunar surface. And that's not even starting on the pain of the still healing nerve endings. It makes him unpleasant to be around, he's aware of this, even as he lashes out at anyone who stands still for long enough.

 

By Thanksgiving, his dad makes him see a therapist. It's kind of limited what she can do, since Stiles can't actually tell her honestly what happened, but even with his spotty explanations she doesn't hesitate to diagnose him with depression. The fact that it's common after trauma like his doesn't help at all.

 

November crawls by slowly, and Stiles does heal. His eye still looks a little wonky, but his vision is improving, and his knee is regaining flexibility too, slowly but surely. It probably helps that Derek keeps coming by and dragging Stiles out for walks and to the gym, no matter how much he complains. He gets the impression that it's Derek's attempt to make up for completely ignoring his dad's wishes, and if Stiles was a better person he'd cut Derek some slack. He's not, though, and most of their time together is spent with Stiles ranting and Derek scowling.

 

It all comes to a head on December first when Stiles finally manages push enough buttons that Derek punches a wall and stomps out, leaving Stiles staring after him in shock. When his dad comes home Stiles tells him about it, expecting sympathy for what an ass Derek was, but instead gets a cuff on the back of his head.

 

“What the hell did you expect, Stiles, you've been nothing but a little shit to him for months.” He holds up a hand to stop any arguing. “I'm aware you've had reason to. I'm not exactly blind to your troubles,” he says, eyeing the cane still leaning against the couch. “And no, Derek isn't exactly the most socially pleasant person on the planet, but give him a break. He's been coming over and helping out when he had no reason to, and I think just a little bit of appreciation would go a long way for him.”

 

Stiles chews on the inside of his cheek for a while, and then sighs. “Well. I guess I've been kind of a dick to him.”

 

“Kind of?” his dad says with a grin, and Stiles shoves him.

 

“Don't mock the invalid, Dad, it's rude.”

 

“Runs in the family. Apologize to Derek. He already apologized to _me_ three times for letting you bully him into paying your medical bills.”

 

“I didn't bully-”

 

“Son,” his dad says, putting a heavy hand on his good shoulder. “You really did. Trust me. That boy is scared to death of you. Be nice to him.”

 

Stiles stares. “Scared of _me_? Dad, what have you been _smoking_ , Derek isn't scared of _anything_. I've seen him spit torturers in the face! Literally!”

 

“That may be the case. But take it from someone with more than twenty years of police work under his belt. He's scared. And I think you could ease his fears a little bit by maybe not being a raging asshole twenty-four-seven. Okay?”

 

“Okay, fine,” Stiles sighs, and the next time Derek warily drops by, Stiles apologizes and goes so far as to thank him, too. Derek still looks glum, but there's a little less tightness around his mouth, so Stiles takes it as a win.

 

He's still depressed, but he makes the effort of at least trying to direct his frustration and bitterness into something without feelings to hurt, and Derek _almost_ smiles when Stiles asks him if they could go to the gym and punch something instead of the usual weight and flexibility training Derek's been nagging him to do. The left arm is still weak and sore, but the right is good for a few decent punches, and afterwards he feels marginally lighter.

 

His therapist keeps recommending he talk to people, and he tries, but he never seems to be able to actually talk about important things, instead yammering along about stupid shit from Wikipedia or Reddit, and he's still kept awake at night by thoughts of how pointless and awful it all is. The only thing that can distract him sometimes is this ridiculous notion that Derek is afraid of him. How his dad got that impression is anybody's guess, but he's definitely wrong. Derek sure isn't afraid of poking Stiles out of bed to do his stretches like the hospital told him to, or nagging at him about eating better food or getting fresh air. He's kind of a dictator, really, and if he wasn't also cutting Stiles' drug use at least in half by his frequent pain drains, Stiles would probably kick him out a lot more often.

 

It stays on Stiles' mind, and Christmas is about two weeks away when he accidentally blurts out: “Dad says you're afraid of me.”

 

Derek drops the potato peeler and fumbles the potato in his hands so badly it bounces around the sink three times before settling down. Stiles would laugh, if Derek didn't look so goddamn _terrified_. Shit, maybe there's actually something to it. Stiles has to swallow hard, and puts down the knife he's been chopping the carrots with. “Sorry, I... I'm sorry, I didn't mean. _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, and swallows again. He's not entirely clear on what, exactly, Derek is afraid of, but it must be bad. Maybe his spark powers. Magic hasn't been too kind to Derek, after all. And neither has Stiles, to be quite honest, and he feels abruptly shitty for it.

 

“It's okay,” Derek says stiffly, and picks up the peeler again with deliberate movements, slow and cautious. Stiles feels a little sick.

 

“Look, whatever it is I do that makes you... uncomfortable, just... tell me and I'll try not to do it. I mean, it's the least I can do. You've been, like, stupidly nice lately.”

 

Derek shrugs. “Not like I've got a day job.”

 

“But still,” Stiles presses on. “Just tell me, please, I won't judge or anything. Unless it's some kind of phobia of graphic tees, then we might have problems.”

 

There's actually a hint of a smile on Derek's face, and Stiles can feel his stomach unclench with relief. “No problem there.”

  
“Then what?”

 

Derek keeps peeling in silence for so long Stiles starts getting jittery, but he forces himself not to push. He knows by now that until Derek walks out or tells him to quit it, the conversation isn't officially over. “You do scare me,” Derek says finally, what feels like a few years later. “Every time you rush into danger, I... it's like a knife to the gut.”

 

Stiles can feel his jaw drop slowly, but doesn't manage to catch for at least a few heartbeats. “What?”

 

“Every time...” Derek clenches his jaw, visibly swallowing. “Every time you learn some new power, or gain more knowledge or... or get stronger. I'm a little more afraid. Every time you get better at protecting us all I know it means you'll be out there more. In danger. In the line of fire. And it... it keeps me awake at night.” He's still peeling potatoes with a level of attention they hardly deserve, but Stiles can't blame him. Getting that kind of message feels just about as difficult as Stiles imagines it must be giving it, and he's clutching the kitchen counter with both hands to not fall down. Both his knees feel suddenly like they won't hold him.

 

“I'm sorry,” Derek says, and Stiles wants to protest, because it seems a silly thing to apologize for, except for how it actually does kinda feels like having his legs pulled out from under him.

 

“Is this... is this your backwards way of telling me... you love me?” He's almost afraid of the answer, and suddenly feels acutely aware of Derek's position.

 

“I guess... yes. I don't expect anything... from you,” Derek says haltingly, and Stiles can only shake his head.

 

“Yeah, no. No, I need... I need a minute.” More like a week, but Derek nods in understanding. “I'll... go lie down for a bit,” Stiles says, and fumbles for his cane until he finds it, and can hobble to the couch. He leaves Derek to the cooking, and proceeds to have a small private crisis in the living room.

 

Derek keeps an awkward distance for a few days, until Stiles texts him to stop being stupid and come back with the pain drain and the nagging. What follows is even more awkwardness, but Stiles is fully aware it's all on him, because if this bomb had dropped on him before the injuries he would have jumped on it. Jumped Derek, specifically, with no hesitation. But now he spends morning after morning scrutinizing his face in the mirror, his wonky eye and lopsided stubble standing out in a horrific way that his plentiful old insecurities never did, and he struggles to even imagine himself with someone who looks like Derek. It simply does not compute, and he feels more tired and depressed than ever as the world around him gears up for the holidays.

 

He still invites Derek to celebrate Christmas with them, because he'd planned to do that anyway since the year before when he'd realized too late that Derek's Christmas had been spent eating mac and cheese alone in the loft. Which is just unacceptable, full stop.

 

As the days tick closer to Christmas, Stiles rethinks Derek's every move in the past year at least, if not longer, and he's ashamed of himself and his observation skills, frankly, because he'd obviously seen everything heavily through the lens of his own feelings and insecurities, and now that he knows different...

 

He's _still doing it_.

 

He realizes this with a bark of near-hysterical laughter as they're setting the table on Christmas Eve, waiting for his dad to come off shift for a couple of hours to go home and have a nice dinner. The plate Stiles is holding drops to the table with a clang, and luckily doesn't break, but Derek is by his side in the blink of an eye, like he's been for months, every time Stiles has been wobbly.

 

“Stiles, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” he asks, gruff and sounding vaguely annoyed like he always does, because he's a fucking asshole who needs to learn how to emote properly, and Stiles laughs even harder, because you'd think Derek was the problem, but no, _Stiles_ is the fucking _problem_.

 

“It's me,” he hiccups. “Fuck, it's _me_. It was never you. I thought you'd never want me, and then you literally told me you do, and I'm still here thinking you could never... shit, Derek, I'm sorry, I thought you were the fucked up one between the two of us, but it was me. It was me all along,” he laughs, because if he doesn't he'll cry.

 

Derek tugs him to the couch and coaxes him to sit down with a strong arm around his middle. “Stiles, don't be an idiot, I'm at least as fucked up as you, probably more,” Derek says, and Stiles coughs out a small sob, because it's true, and it's ironic and hilarious and _sad_. No wonder he's fucking depressed. “Just maybe not in the way you thought?”

 

Stiles nods and sniffs hard. “Yeah. I've really been losing my touch on the whole figuring things out front, huh?”

 

“Guess you'll just have to pull yourself together, then,” Derek jokes in his usual dry way, and, god, Stiles loves him. Loves his grouchy asshole ways and his marshmallow center and his fucked up emoting skills.

 

His stupid resting murder face is right there, inches away, so Stiles does the only sensible thing he can think of, and closes the distance, coaxing Derek's jaw to the right angle with a gentle touch of his fingertips. Derek moves easily, like he's been poised and ready for it for a long time, and when their lips meet there's a finality to it that Stiles hardly knows what to do with. It's a first kiss, but also a last, because it's gonna be difficult and painful and they're both gonna have to work hard, but Stiles knows somehow, in his very soul, that this will be the last person he ever kisses.

 

And Stiles is okay with that. More than okay, actually.

 

End.

 


End file.
